Kathy Reichs: Grave Secrets

I felt icy-hot, and my hands were shaking.

Relapse.

Time for an Imodium hit.

Returning from the bathroom, I noticed an odd shadow falling across the carpet in front of the door. I went to check. The latch had not properly engaged.

Had I left the door open when I’d arrived and dashed to the bathroom? I was feeling lousy, but such carelessness was out of character.

I closed and locked it, a sense of trepidation joining the rest of my symptoms.

Dialing Galiano, I felt weak all over. The trembling in my hands had intensified.

Galiano and Ryan were out. I had to swallow before I could leave a message.

Damn! I couldn’t be sick. I wouldn’t!

I collected Nordstern’s folders and stacked them beside the armchair. Stealing the quilt from the bed, I tucked my feet under my bum and wrapped myself in it. I was feeling worse by the minute.

Dramatically worse.

I opened a folder. Interview notes. I had to keep wiping my face as I read. Rivulets of perspiration rolled down the inside of my sweats.

Within minutes I felt a sharp pain in my belly, then tremors below my tongue. Heat rose from my throat to my hairline.

I raced to the bathroom, retched until my sides ached, then returned to my chair to re-cocoon. Every few minutes I repeated the journey. I felt weaker with each trip.

Collapsing into my chair for the fourth time, I shut my eyes and pulled the quilt to my chin. I felt rough cotton against my skin. I smelled my own odor. My head spun, and I saw tiny constellations on the backs of my lids.

The jackhammers receded to a sound like popping corn. I saw locusts on a summer night. Gossamer wings. Red, bulging eyes. I felt insects buzz through my bloodstream.

Then I was with Katy. She was little, maybe three or four, and we were reading a book of nursery rhymes. Her hair was white blonde. The sun shone through it like moonlight through mist. She wore the pinafore I’d bought on a trip to Nantucket.

Let me help, sweetheart.

I can do it.

Of course you can.

I know my letters. Sometimes I just can’t put them together.

That’s the hard part.

Take your time.

Hector Protector was dressed all in green;

Hector Protector was sent to the queen;

The queen didn’t like him, nor did the king;

So Hector Protector was sent back again.

Why didn’t they like him, Mommy?

I don’t know.

Was he a bad man?

I don’t think so.

What was the queen’s name?

Arabella.

Katy giggled.

What was the king’s name?

Charlie Oliver.

More giggles.

You always say funny names, Mommy.

I like to see you laugh.

What was Hector Protector’s last name?

Lucas.

Maybe he wasn’t really a protector.

Maybe not.

What then, Mommy?

A collector?

Giggles.

An erecter.

A defecter.

An ejecter.

A dissector

An inspector.

I awoke standing in the bathroom, palms and forehead pressed to the mirror.

Had that been the word Molly had overheard? Not inspector. Not Specter.

Hector.

Hector Lucas.

Did I really have it backward? Was the doctor in fact controlling the DA? Had Lucas ordered the attack on Molly and Carlos? What was his link to our work at Chupan Ya? I couldn’t make sense of it. Did he have Nordstern killed when the reporter got too close to the truth? Did he have Patricia Eduardo killed? Would Lucas deal with Zuckerman and Jorge Serano in the same way?

Would he try to kill Galiano and Ryan?

I lurched to the bedside table, fumbled for my cell.

Neither Ryan nor Galiano answered.

I wiped perspiration from my face with the back of an arm.

Where were they going? Zuckerman’s clinic? The morgue?

Think!

I took a deep breath, opened and closed my eyes. Images swirled. Stars flashed on my lids.

What to do?

I blew out a breath. Then another.

If Lucas really was dangerous, Ryan and Galiano would have no way to know. Zuckerman may already have reached him, and Lucas might think they were coming to arrest him, and shoot.

Throwing on shoes, I grabbed my purse and headed downstairs.

It took twenty minutes to hail a taxi.

“¿Dónde?”

Where?

Where had Ryan and Galiano gone? Not the Paraíso or Zuckerman’s clinic. Those places were staked out.

The driver drummed his fingers on the wheel.

Where would Lucas be?

Or did I want Díaz? Maybe Dr. Fereira could tell me.

I was trembling all over, my teeth clicking like a cheap party toy.

“¿Dónde, señora?”

Focus!

“Morgue del Organismo Judicial.”

“Zona Tres?”

“Oui.”

That was wrong. Why?

As the taxi crossed the city I watched an ever-changing panoply of color and shape. Banners strung above the streets. Ads posted on fences, walls, and billboards. I didn’t try to read them. I couldn’t. My head spun as it had in my drinking days when I’d fall asleep with one foot on the floor to remain stuck to the planet.

I knew I overpaid the driver by his smile and his blast-off.

No matter.

I looked up and down the block. The neighborhood was as bleak as I remembered, the cemetery larger and darker. Galiano’s car was nowhere in sight.

I stared at the morgue. Fereira. I needed to see Dr. Fereira. I followed a gravel driveway along the left side of the building. My sneakers made crunching sounds that thundered in my ears.

The drive led to a parking area containing two transport vehicles, a white Volvo, and a black station wagon. No Batmobile.

A drop of sweat rolled into my right eye. I wiped it away with my sleeve.

Now what? I hadn’t thought about entering without Ryan or Galiano. Look for Fereira?

I tested the personnel entrance at the back of the building. No go. The garage door used for body intake was also locked.

I tried to be more quiet. I crossed to the first van and peered through a window. Nothing.

I scuttled to the second vehicle.

The third.

A set of keys lay on the seat!

Heart thumping, I liberated my prize and stumbled back to the building.

None of the keys worked on the personnel door.

Damn.

My hands trembled as I tried key after key at the vehicle bay.

No.

No.

No.

I dropped the cluster of keys. My legs shook as I searched on all fours in the dark. An eternity later, my hand closed around them.

Rising, I started again.

The fifth or sixth key slid into the lock and turned. I nudged the door upward an inch, and froze.

No sirens or beepers. No armed guards.

I nudged another two feet. The gears sounded louder than the jackhammers at my hotel.

No one appeared. No one called out.

Barely breathing, I crouched and crab-walked into the morgue. Why was it I wanted to be inside? Oh yeah. Dr. Fereira, or Ryan, or Galiano.

The familiar blended odors of death and disinfectant enveloped me. It was a smell I’d know anywhere.

Keeping my back to the wall, I followed a corridor past a roll-on gurney scale, an office, and a small room with a curtained window.

My lab in Montreal has a similar chamber. The dead are wheeled to the far side of the glass. The curtains are opened. A loved one reacts with relief or sorrow. It is the most heartbreaking place in the building.

Beyond the viewing room, the corridor dead-ended into another. I looked left, right.

Another light show behind my eyes. I closed them, breathed deeply, opened them. Better.